The Jester Race

Rush faster on the one-way lane The answers so silent

Rusty gods in their machine-mind armours Grind our souls in the millstone of time The "deathbed harvest" is a dead man's banquet Of mold ridden bread and black, poisoned wine

And we go... our step so silent And we go... our blooded trace The Jester Race

Calling our to the gathered masses Their answers so silent

And we go...

Embracing the tools of the neo-wolf age That speak of silence and silence alone

Offering the tokens, the reliced idols To the heirs of the newly raped ground Inferior even to the transparent winds Lesser in the motion and sound

And we go...

There is no trace of me In their altered blueprints of life

Gala impaled on their horns and lances The fumes from her body give chase As the strong of blind men savour the scent, Dream-dead from Prosaic and hate

-Epilogue-

"Sunwind strokes the ElectroHeart, Ignition roars through the corridors, Stream launching the binary vessels"

Vanities in extreme formations Ride into tomorrow's rigid great face The Machinery outlives the futile scripts Of our dying jester race